


Absinthe

by Smol_Lydia (amutemockingjay)



Category: Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King, Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bad life choices made with absinthe, Dorian Gray is horny on main, Eventual mystery I swear, F/M, Lydia Deetz and Enola Holmes would be bffs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26125216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/Smol_Lydia
Summary: Lydia Deetz isn't a good Victorian girl, the kind that will lie back and think of England when it's required of her. Throw in a brilliant sleuth solving best friend, the ghost with the most, a debutante ball gone wrong, and Lydia thinks she may have bitten off more than she can chew. Seeing the dead is no picnic, and as she finds herself tangled up in a mystery she can't solve, she'll have to look for help in the most unlikely of places.
Relationships: Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	1. Phantom Manor

**Author's Note:**

> This had been sitting in my WIPs partially finished since April, and I finally cobbled together somewhat of a hint of health in order to finish it. I do love my weird AUs, and this one was super fun to write. It is a multi-chap, even though AO3 never seems to like to mark my work as such. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

London, 1890

Today was supposed to be the most important day of her short life, and Lydia Deetz was having none of it. She stared at her reflection in her dressing-table mirror: hair curled and styled, a white feather tucked between the strands; a white stain dress embroidered with pearls, corset pulled so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She looked nothing like herself, the mourning clothes set aside for one night, and one night only. 

“Lydia, dear, we’re going to be late!” Her step-mother, Delia, lingered in the doorway, the smell of sherry wafting. Lydia wrinkled her nose, slamming down her hair brush. “I’d rather not go at all,” she muttered. 

“Lydia.” Delia made her way over to her step-daughter on unsteady feet. “We have been over this. Melancholy is unbecoming, especially on the night of your debut.” 

“I’m in mourning,” she snapped back. “It was your and Daddy’s idea not to push back my debut.” 

“It’s been eight months, isn’t it time we moved forward? You are seventeen; a girl only debuts once. How else will you find a husband?” 

Lydia rolled her eyes, storming past the tipsy woman. “Maybe I’ll auction myself off in Whitechapel instead to the highest bidder.”

She ignored Delia’s gasp as she slipped down the mahogany staircase, through the foyer and to the carriage outside waiting. Delia struggled to keep up, and eventually settled across from the resentful teenager, out of breath and hairpiece askew. Dusk was settling in, the sky streaked with purples and blues, fog clinging to the cobblestones and carriage wheels as the pair traveled through the city, past opulent mansions, gilded cages much like her own. A familiar ache was settling in her chest. She missed her mother more than she could say, and wished more than ever she could confide in her. The debutantes’ ball was the pinnacle social event of the season, parading London’s young women out in order to arrange their courtship and marriages. Just the thought of getting married brought bile into Lydia’s throat. She wanted to travel, to study. Write, like Edgar Allen Poe. Not wilt away in the stuffy parlor of a limp haired boy. 

“Now Lydia,” Delia trilled as the carriage began to slow. “It is imperative that you are on your best behavior this evening.” 

“Can’t let anyone know I’m feral, can we?” 

Delia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lydia. This evening is very important for your social future.” 

“And as i've told Daddy, I don’t want to be married.” 

“Well, that is simply not an option.” The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a dark brick mansion, weathered and scorched. Stone gargoyles adorned a grey slate roof. Lydia raised an eyebrow. 

“Who is hosting the ball this year?” 

Delia fanned herself. “Why Mr. Gray, of course. He’s still the most eligible bachelor in Mayfield Square.” 

“Thrilling.” Lydia pushed open the door, hopping down and charging ahead. A uniformed butler opened the door to the mansion, nose in the air. “And whom shall I announce?” He asked. 

“Miss Lydia Deetz.”

“And your chaperone, Miss Deetz?”

She shook her head. “I’m alone.”

A white gloved hand pushed open a door on the left of the darkened foyer. “Miss Lydia Deetz!” He called, opening the door to reveal a large ballroom. Her breath hitched as she took in the dramatic scene: hundreds of candles flickering in the space, the walls draped in fashionable grey silk. The dark wooden floor gleamed, reflecting the candlelight. A band in the corner played a waltz, young girls in white being lead in dance uncertainly by boys not much older. Chaperones, women sipping champagne and nibbling on chocolates played cards and gossiped, whispering behind fans. Lydia gripped a dance card with her name on it, eyes flicking over the potential prospects. One hour. She would give this entire ordeal one hour and then hire a coach back, citing bad prawns. She had always been the odd one out amongst her classmates in finishing school, and she had no desire to engage any of them in conversation. There was nothing to say, with her mother gone. 

“Miss Deetz, I presume?” 

A smooth, deep voice interrupted her thoughts and she took in the speaker. A tall man, dark hair hanging in his eyes, addressed her. He was sharply dressed, in a pressed suit and an emerald cravat, the overall effect rather dashing. She could feel her cheeks flush, her heartbeat beginning to pick up. 

“Yes, and you are?”

He pressed a brief kiss to the top of her hand. “Mr. Dorian Gray. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she murmured. Her skin burned where his lips had touched her. She took a step towards him, feeling as though she were being pulled forward. 

“May I have the honor of asking you to dance?” 

She brandished the dance card, feeling as though she were in a trance. He plucked out of her hands, and tucked into his jacket. “I don’t believe you’ll need this.”

“And why is that?” 

He took her hand and lead her onto the dance floor. “Because, my dear,” he said, his voice low, “When I see something or someone exquisite, I intend to keep them to myself.” He flashed her a dashing smile. “I don’t share well.” 

If these words had been said by any of the pimply, flaccid boys paraded before her at other social events, Lydia would have run without a second thought. But something about Dorian’s possessiveness left her head swimming in a pleasant, dizzying manner. Even lower still, heat pooled in her core. 

Dorian’s hands circled her waist, drawing her closer. She swore she could feel the heat of his touch through the layers of satin and stays, and she stumbled a little. 

“Are you quite all right, Miss Deetz?” 

She nodded, her mouth was dry but she managed to whisper. “Call me Lydia.” 

“Lydia, then.” He brought a certain musicality to the syllables, and although she had always laughed at the delicate girls who swooned, she felt faint herself. 

He twirled her in time to the music. The ballroom swayed in her vision; the cacophony of sounds and light and music becoming altogether too much with the frenzied pace of her heart. 

“Perhaps we should take some air, Lydia?” He suggested with gentleness. She came to. She hadn’t realized she had gone slightly limp in his arms. 

“Yes,” she stammered. “That would be agreeable.” 

He began to lead her from the ballroom. “Do you like to read? I have a library that is far less overwhelming.” 

“I love to read.” She perked up at the thought of a library. “Edgar Allen Poe is my favorite, actually.” 

He cocked an eyebrow at this. “Strange reading tastes for such a proper young lady.” 

“Strange and unusual.” She paused and bit her lip. Here she was, going off to be alone with a man after less than one dance. And no other than London’s most eligible bachelor. “And perhaps less proper than you would think.” 

His grin in return revealed something feral for the briefest moments, before he righted himself. She shivered, though she wasn’t sure if it was cold or fear or something else entirely. 

Of course, he noticed immediately. “Are you cold, my dear?” 

Her mouth was dry and she struggled to find the words; instead shaking her head. 

“I’ll be sure to have someone light a fire,” he said, opening a set of double doors to reveal a large library. She gasped. It was as close to heaven as she had ever seen on Earth. Walls lined floor to ceiling with intricately carved bookshelves, stuffed to the brim with leather bound volumes, a collection that would put her family’s to shame. One wall was free of bookshelves, with a vast stone fireplace, two stuffed armchairs in front of the crackling flames. Above the fireplace mantel there was a discoloration on the walls, as if a piece of artwork had hung there at one point, but no longer. The blank space gave her a bit of an unsettled feeling. 

“Ah, it seems my staff is several steps ahead of me,” Dorian said. He indicated the chairs. “Come, sit, warm yourself up.” 

“Oh no thank you.” Lydia gravitated towards one of the shelves, reading the spines of the volumes. “When I see so many books I can’t help myself, I’m drawn to them.”

“Indeed,” Dorian murmured, his gaze fixed not on the books, but on Lydia. Spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. He reached past her, brushing his hands on her waist as he grabbed a book off the shelf. “Hmm. Here it is. I think you would enjoy this poem.” He handed the volume to her, his hands brushing up against her own. Even this small touch set her aflame again, and she tried to focus on the words in front of her, though she felt pulled to something else entirely. 

“Because I could not stop for Death,” she read the title aloud and smiled. “It seems you know my tastes precisely, Mr. Gray.” 

“I do believe we can lessen the formalities, Lydia,” he said, his dark eyes glinting. “Call me Dorian.” 

“Of course.” She felt as though she could hardly breathe, and she read the same sentence over and over again, the words barely comprehensible to her. “I must confess, I’m having trouble focusing,” she admitted, hanging her head. 

Dorian tilted her chin up towards him. “And why would that be, my dear?” 

Her heart was hammering so fast she felt as though it would jump out of her body. She shut the book. She knew to a certain extent how to flirt but this felt like an invitation more than a suggestion. 

“Surely I don’t have to spell it out for you,” she said, her voice trembling. 

“Of course not, my dear. I can read the desire on your face.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, so that her body was pressed against his. He smelled of expensive cologne and pipe tobacco, musky and sweet. 

She knew that a proper girl would deny him, be offended, storm away and demand a chaperone. Instead, her lips parted, desperate for his kiss. 

“Dorian—“ Her voice was a hushed whisper and she felt as though she were too far gone to be properly embarrassed about the yearning she felt. 

“Yes, my dear?” Two gloved fingers tilted her chin upwards. He was so tall that he would still have to bend to kiss her. 

“I should…” Her voice trailed off. How could she even be considering such an improper arrangement, even if she never intended to marry, with the specter of grief and death hanging over her so potently? 

He pressed one finger to her lips. “If I kept to shoulds I would have nothing in life. Tell me, my dear Lydia, have you ever wanted more?”

“Yes.” So much more than what she was limited to. That was what her best friend, Enola, and her talked about endlessly. Being so much more than just a lady, a paragon of virtue that existed only to be put on a pedestal. 

He moved his finger, brushing his lips against hers, tasting, testing. “Then you ought to take it,” he murmured. 

As he kissed her, gently at first, Lydia felt her heartbeat thrum so quickly she was faint. She had never been kissed before, and the sensation was intoxicating, running through her veins like the strongest of wines. Her entire upper half flushed red, an aching between her legs that left her desperate and hungry for something she could not name. She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short pants. Dorian chuckled, his tone taking on a dark edge that sent shivers down her spine. “Dizzy with desire?” He asked, twirling one of her raven curls around his finger. 

She bit her lower lip, feeling hopelessly naive. “Perhaps,” she mumbled. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Rather, pleasure is the one thing we should seek in life, do you not agree?.” His hands moved from her hair to the top of her gown, scandalously close to her bosom. 

Just then the closed, heavy doors of the library burst open, as though someone were upon them. Yet, there was no one to be found, the hallway empty and no breeze. Lydia felt a shiver down her back unlike the lust she had just experienced; despite the room being empty she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

“Perhaps I should take my leave,” she said. Disappointment flashed across Dorian’s eyes for the briefest of moments, then he returned to his usual rakish gaze. “If that is what you wish,” he said coolly. “But mayhaps you indulge me in one thing.” 

“What would that be?” 

Dorian reaches behind a red leather bound volume, where a nook held a green bottle, a spoon, and a few wrapped cubes of sugar. “Have a drink with me.” 

She furrowed her brow. “Without a glass?” 

“Sugar dissolves on the spoon,” he explained. “Takes away the bitterness of the wormwood.” 

“Wormwood?” 

“Absinthe, my dear.” 

Oh. The green fairy. She had heard stories, certainly, but had never had anything stronger than a glass of wine. Still, the thrill of having broken the rules pushed her forward. “I’ll have a drink, then.” 

He unwrapped a small cube of sugar, placing it on the spoon and pouring the drink over it. The liquid dissolved the crystals and he swallowed quickly, repeating the process for her. She raised the drink to her lips. It smelled of licorice and she wrinkled her nose in distaste. Not her favorite flavor by any stretch of the imagination. She wasn’t going to back out now, though— that was a matter of pride. She swallowed the liquid, trying not to shudder at the wretched taste. Somehow, she didn’t want to appear weak in front of him. 

“Not your type of flavor?” He asked with a smirk. 

Drat it all. He was shrewd. 

“Not quite,” she admitted. “I must confess have a bit of a sweet tooth.” 

“ I could see that. Sweets for a sweetheart.” He held out his arm to her. “I can escort you back to the ballroom, if you would like.” 

She nodded. She didn’t know how long it would take for the drink and it’s potent hallucinations to take effect. She had heard of men being driven to madness by absinthe. Little did anyone know that she could easily end up in a madhouse herself. 

As promised, Dorian left her in the care of a doorman, disappearing into the haze of the crowd. Was she imagining it, or was the room tilting? The colors seemed too bright, garish really, the music somehow off-kilter. Overwhelmed she pressed her hands to her temples. Stumbling out of the ballroom into another darkened corridor of the cavernous mansion. Lit by hazy oil lamps, the flickering fire seemed to split into a million sparks she could touch. Giggling, she chased after the stars, determined that she could catch them. 

She didn’t see the man until she collided with him. And upon looking up at him, she wasn’t sure if he was a man at all. He glowed with the spectral coating of the undead. Moss grew across small spots on his corpse pale face. His brown hair was dotted with moss as well, spiked and askew. He was cold to the touch, his hand reaching out to steady her. He wore a three piece suit of black and white stripes, but the stripes were all wrong somehow, though she couldn’t tell if it was the absinthe clouding her mind. He was most definitely dead, but whether he was a figment of her imagination, or one of the wayward spirits she regularly encountered was unknown. 

“Steady there, babes,” he said, holding her by her waist. 

That was when her world went back. 

* * *

When she came to, she was on a bed, covered with a feather eiderdown. Her mouth felt as though it had all moisture sucked out of it, her head throbbing incessantly. Whatever was in that drink was the devil, surely. Sunlight peeked through velvet curtains and with panic rising she realized she had been kept overnight, in a bed that was not her own. 

She rushed to pat down her person, seeing if her clothes were in tact, that her virtue hadn’t been compromised. As far as she could tell nothing had been disturbed but the mortification was almost too much to bear. How on earth was she to explain this? 

Lydia sat up far too quickly, and her stomach roiled, threatening to empty its contents into the basin on the sideboard. She felt absolutely ghastly. A belch escaped her and bile burned the back of her throat. She tried to hold back the unrelenting nausea, slowly placing her feet on the floor and pushing back the covers. Her muscles ached, and she could recall only snippets of the night’s antics after she had the absinthe. The ghost must have been an illusion. The strange force that had blown open the library doors, she was less certain of. 

She opens the oak door, emerging into a hallway, the same one she had stumbled around last night. So she was still in Dorian’s mansion. He must have put her in a spare bedroom because of her state. And given he was a gentleman— despite what his heated kisses indicated otherwise— he would have never dared take her virtue in such a manner. Now, she just had to find a way home. 

She stumbled towards the front door, but as she reached for the handle, the door open. On the front stoop, dressed in a royal blue dress, was her best friend, Enola Holmes. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Looking for you,” the sixteen year old replied. 

Lydia’s mind struggled to put together how this could be, though she knew Enola to be as sharp as her famous brother, when her stomach could hold on no longer, and she vomited all over her best friend. 


	2. A Visit with Dr. Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia finds herself haunted by more than just memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad y'all have been enjoying this story! The Enola Holmes movie dropped last week and it was amazing, though I wrote the beginning of this chapter before the film dropped. Personally I headcanon Enola as bisexual and primarily ship her with Lady Cecily, as mentioned here, though I liked her dynamic with Tewksebury in the film. 
> 
> My friend Moca drew me some amazing fan art for this fic and her idea ended up towards the end of this chapter because I loved it so much!!

To her eternal credit, Enola did not shrink in disgust the way any other maiden her age might have. 

“Enola, I’m so sorry….” Lydia wanted to sink into the pavement with embarrassment. 

The sixteen year old shrugged her, flicking her skirt to rid herself of the more unseemly chunks. Instead, she wrapped her arm around Lydia’s shoulders, turning her outwards to the street. “Come, lean on me. I’ll hire us a cab and take you to Dr. Watson’s.” 

Of course. Dr. John Watson was Sherlock’s associate, as well as a practicing physician. A cab was soon procured and the two girls clambered into the back, both in ruined dresses. Quite a sight to end up on the esteemed doctor’s doorstep. 

The swaying of the carriage did nothing to abate Lydia’s nausea and she took deep breaths, trying to distract herself. “How did you find me?” She asked Enola. 

“Your step mother contacted me; she was out of mind with worry when you didn’t return last night.” 

Lydia raised her eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have thought Delia would notice anything other than herself.” 

“At least she reached out to me instead of going to one of Spiritualist mediums she’s so fond of.” 

“Fair enough.” Her best friend was a staunch rationalist, and although Lydia had yet to confess her own gifts, she knew that Spiritualism was nothing more than a racket for the unscrupulous sort to line their pockets. 

“I figured I would start at Mr. Gray’s, given that if you were not there, surely one of his guests and staff would have seen you leave the premises. And I was correct in that assumption.” 

“I guess I must have fainted,” Lydia said. I woke up in a guest bedroom.” 

Enola’s brown eyes widened. “He did not….?” 

Lydia shook her head vehemently. “No.” 

“I’ve heard he has a bit of a reputation as a rake.” 

Lydia paused to digest this information. He did seem incredibly smooth and practiced in the way he approached her, stoking her desire. Her cheeks flushed at the memory. “He did kiss me, though.” 

“Was he any good at it?” The curiosity of the teenage girls they were. 

“Better than when the Viscount Tewksbury tried to do the same to you.” 

Enola giggles. “He was so awful! Stiff and tried to put his tongue in my mouth, repulsive.” 

“Can’t say the same of Lady Cecily, hmm?” Lydia teased her friend lightly. Lady Cecily and Enola were understandably close given the multiple times Enola had to intervene to save the Lady’s life two years ago, before Lydia had met her enigmatic friend. Now, Cecily and Enola were inseparable and more than friends, a closely guarded secret that only Lydia knew. 

Enola rolled her eyes in annoyance but the pinkness in her face betrayed her. Just then, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Watson’s home. 

“I’ll tell you the full story later, I promise,” Lydia said. “It was….strange. At least, something I saw.” 

Both girls exited the carriage and Enola knocked at the front door. Mrs. Watson entered, and she took in both girls’ sorry state.

“I’ll call for the doctor,” she promised with a warm tone in her voice. “And see if the hired girl can find something for both of you. We can soak the dresses and hopefully the stains will come out.” 

Lydia heard her walk away muttering good-naturedly about the odd shenanigans of adolescent girls. In a few moments the Watsons’ hired girl, a shy young thing, arrived with two plain cotton dresses, ushering them into a private chamber to change out of their vomit stained dresses. 

The impractical nature of dresses befitting their station was the inherent difficulty in dressing and undressing. Even though both girls preferred their corsets looser than the fashionable tight lacing that sent many a young woman into a faint, the whole affair taxed even the most patient. 

Enola helped Lydia with her corset, cover, and dress, buttoning the minuscule buttons down the back with deft fingers. Lydia returned the favor, taking in her friend’s beauty. Though she didn’t care for Enola in the same way Lady Cecily did, Lydia certainly understood why the Lady was attracted to the young detective. The quiet intimacy of the moment as Lydia’s finger brushed against Enola’s shoulder, almost made her want to open up about the strange poltergeist she had seen in the Gray mansion. 

She shook her head. It must have been the absinthe. The spirits she oft encountered looked nothing like the moss edged, pinstriped man who had helped her into bed that night. More frequently they were the lost, those taken before their times, those seeking loved ones and occasionally, vengeance. Lydia didn’t lend a hand in revenge plots; she couldn’t shake the feeling that it would set off a chain of consequences she’d rather keep away from.

“Doctor Watson will see you now,” the hired girl poked her head into the room and informed them. Both Lydia and Enola followed her crisp footsteps into a side office where Dr. Watson sat in a high-backed chair by a grate, placing his newspaper on a walnut end table. 

“Enola Holmes,” he said, breaking into a smile. “And friend. What do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Mary said something about you being ill?” 

“Lydia Deetz,” Lydia said by way of introduction, dipping into a small courtesy. Though she had met Enola’s famous brother Sherlock on an occasion or two, she had never gotten a chance to speak with the esteemed doctor companion of the legendary detective. 

“Please, sit.” He gestured towards a couple of leather chairs opposite. 

“I’m quite all right,” Enola said by way of explanation. “Lydia’s step-mother sent for me after she didn’t return home last night. I found her at Mr. Gray’s mansion, quite ill.” 

“Nothing improper,” Lydia hastily reassured the older man, cheeks aflame. She would rather be stabbed by bad art than admit what had happened to her in the library in front of either Sherlock or Dr.Watson. “I was given some absinthe.” 

“Ah,” the doctor murmured. “And you awoke with very little memory?” 

“Very little, except, well, some very odd hallucinations.” Her thoughts once again drifted to the mysterious spirit. Why was he so stuck in her mind? “I woke with a terrible headache and i...got sick.” 

“A very common reaction to such an experience. At least for those of the female persuasion. Very delicate constitutions.”

Lydia snuck a glance at Enola. Her tenacious friend could hardly be described as fragile. 

“Such a reaction is caused by dehydration. I would recommend water, plenty of rest, perhaps with a squeeze of lemon. But Miss Deetz….” Dr. Watson looked solemn, “I know you said you do not recall a lot of the events of the evening but are you certain that nothing untoward happened? If so….I’m sure something can be done.” 

_ Nothing I didn’t encourage and ask for, _ Lydia thought but pressed her lips together in a tight line. “No, Doctor, I’m certain nothing of the sort occurred.” 

Dr. Watson breathed a small sigh of relief. “That is reassuring to hear. Nothing untoward of that nature has been rumored of Mr. Gray, but he has been known to be quite the dashing figure among certain circles.” 

Lydia looked down at her folded hands in her lap. She knew he would take it as a sign of humility but in reality she was trying to control the sweep of emotions that engulfed her. 

“I will get a carriage to escort you and Enola back, of course,” Dr. Watson said, “and I will send you along with some aspirin if your headache persists.” At that he stood up and reached into a desk drawer, procuring a small bottle of pills. Placing it in Lydia’s hand he went into the hallway to urge the stable boy to get a carriage for the girls. 

Mrs. Watson joined them in the hallway, giving Enola an affectionate squeeze. “Your dresses are still soaking; I will send them along as soon as they are ready.” With a brief goodbye she ushered the girls into the carriage.

* * *

Enola had decided to accompany Lydia back to the Deetz home, both to reassure Delia Deetz of Lydia’s safety, and to have tea with her friend— of course, over said tea she would hear all the details about Mr. Gray. 

Lydia rolled her eyes at her step-mother’s hysterics. Delia already smelled of sherry, her eyes glassy and her red hair a little askew. Lydia ordered a tea brought up to her room and without further ado took Enola’s hand and led her to the drawing room. 

The two girls collapsed on the dark purple settee, grinning. 

“Do you feel any better?” Enola asked.

“A little,” Lydia replied. 

The Deetz’ maid entered, bringing with her a silver tea service and a few scones. Nothing fancy; Lydia preferred to keep things simple. Downstairs the bell rang, and the maid quickly departed. 

Lydia helped herself to a scone, nibbling a little and hoping some semblance of food would settle her stomach. “Can I tell you something in confidence?” She asked as Enola stirred sugar into her tea. 

“Of course.” 

“It’s about Mr. Gray.” 

Enola raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Lydia felt herself flush again, her palms beginning to sweat. “When we were in the library I….” she lowered her voice, “wanted him to do so much more than just kiss me.” 

Much to her friend’s credit, Enola did not shame her. Instead, she asked in that pragmatic way of hers. “Would you have let him, were he so inclined?” 

Lydia bit her lower lip. Girls of her station were taught little other than touching happened between a man and a wife, and when carnal acts were performed in the marriage bed she wasn’t supposed to feel pleasure, she was supposed to lie back and think of England, of making children for the Empire. But she wanted nothing to do with such nonsense. 

“Maybe,” she said. “It was odd, though, the doorway to the library flew open even though there was no wind, or breeze. I swear out of the corner of my eye…” Lydia trailed off. She had said too much. 

Just then, the maid entered the room once again, this time with a large glass case in tow. 

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss,” the maid said. “But this was left here.”

Lydia nodded. “You can bring it here, Martha. Who is it from?” 

“A Mr. Dorian Gray, Miss.” Martha set down the gift on a walnut table next to the settee. 

The case was round, made of glass except for a wooden base. And within the glass a polished bone skull was mounted next to the candle. 

“How unusual,” Lydia murmured. 

“Right give me the creeps, it does,” Martha said. 

Lydia turned to the young maid. “Thank you Martha, that will be all.” 

Enola looked at the skull. “It appears large enough to be human, certainly not a dog or cat.” 

“Indeed.” Lydia traced the shape onto the glass. “I wonder how he came upon it.” 

“Medical school, perhaps?” 

Lydia nodded. There was, of course, a grisly alternative she dare not name. She shivered— when did the room get such a chill? Just as she turned her head, there was a loud pop as the glass case shattered. Lydia startled and Enola jumped back, shards having just missed her. 

“I’ll go get Martha,” she offered, leaving Lydia to stare at the exposed skull. As her friend left the room, Lydia noticed a flash of creamy white. A note, underneath the base. 

“My dearest Lydia,” it read, “please enjoy this token of my affection; a strange and unusual gift for a strange and unusual young woman. Yours, D. Gray.” 

Hearing a thump behind her, Lydia dropped the paper, turning towards the sound. 

The poltergeist from the night before leaned up against her far wall, grinning. “Don’t tell me you fall for that kinda shit, babes.” 


End file.
